


Monty This Seems Strange to Me

by der_tanzer



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 05:20:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4378793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/der_tanzer/pseuds/der_tanzer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scotty leaves Enterprise without warning, leaving Chekov frightened and in over his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monty This Seems Strange to Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oddmonster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddmonster/gifts).



> Missing scenes from Into Darkness.

Chekov wanted to ask Captain Kirk what he meant, how could he possibly be the “new” Chief Engineer? What happened to the “old” one? But he knew that if the captain wanted to tell him he would have. Probably he still would. Just not now, on the bridge in front of everyone, as they were preparing to leave port. Chekov was certain it would all be explained eventually but in this moment, when Kirk said to put on a red shirt get going, he could do no more than say _aye, Keptin_ , and go. 

Besides, he could always ask Scotty. It must be a technicality, like the way Captain Kirk and Commander Spock seemed to take turns being Captain and First Officer. The more he considered it, the more sense that made. But Scotty would probably be upset, it would be a terrible blow to his ego no matter what the reason, and Chekov decided that his first duty as Chief should be to check on the state of his crew.

After he got a red shirt and changed his computer authorization, he trotted to the centralized jumble of shelves and screens that served as Scotty’s office. This was where they first really got to know each other, working and reading and taking the occasional nip from the flask kept hidden in a box of broken communicators. He expected to find Scotty making up the duty roster for the mission, or at least waiting to discuss it with him, and was shocked to see that instead his partner, his soulmate, was packing PADDS and tools into a canvas bag, while Mr. Keenser stood by grumbling and gnawing his fist.

“Monty, what iz this?” he gasped, all his professionalism gone. Keenser chirped and began talking at a furious rate, pleading with Chekov to fix it. Chekov told him swiftly in Russian that he would, as soon as he knew what _it_ was.

Scotty snarled at Keenser to _shut it_ , and his friend shrank back and resumed chewing his hand.

“I’ve resigned my post,” he said shortly.

“Resigned?” Chekov repeated blankly. “But—but we are leaving port soon. We have mission.”

“Not me. I cannae tolerate the highhandedness of Starfleet, or Captain James Because I Bloody Said So Kirk, one more day. Not now. Not wi’ these new missiles we don’ know anything about.”

“What missiles? Monty, _please_. What iz going on? You are not leaving, are you? How can you just—leave?”

“I am’nae leaving you,” Scotty said, stunned. He’d been so angry that for a few minutes he’d actually forgotten about Chekov and the promises he’d made. 

“Then what do you call zis?” 

Scotty stopped packing and went to him, only to have Chekov back away, crossing his arms protectively over his muscular chest. 

“No, Monty. Do not touch me.”

“Pasha,” he said, stricken, and a flicker of pain echoed on Chekov’s face. Hastily he explained what had happened, how Kirk had allowed the new torpedoes on board, dozens of them, with unknown fuel and foreign technology, and accepted his resignation rather than listen to his reasonable concerns. But Chekov didn’t hear all of it through the roaring in his ears, nor did he comprehend everything that he did hear. His heart pounded to the beat of _Monty’s leaving, Monty’s leaving_ , and that was all he knew. 

“You said you lowved me,” Chekov reminded him, in front of everyone in Main Engineering. Scotty wasn’t the captain, this wasn’t the Bridge, and his self-control was at an all-time low. 

“Ach, I do,” Scotty insisted. “I’m not leaving you, Pavel, just because I haftae leave the ship.” 

“But you _do not_ have to,” he cried. “Tell ze keptin you are sorry for whatewer happened and he will take you back. He cannot really want you to go, Monty.”

“It is’nae that simple, love. Things are wrong here, and—”

“Wrong wit’—us?”

Scotty took a step toward him and Chekov stepped back, arms still crossed firmly, not letting him in.

“No, laddie, not us. Never with us.” 

“Until now that you are leaving me.” 

“ _Not_ you,” Scotty shouted, finally attracting the eyes of the last three crew members who weren’t already openly staring. “You have a mission tae go on, but you’ll be back soon an’ we’ll figure all this out. I just cannae go along no more. It’s nothing to do wi’ you, love, I just…” 

“You just will not stay for me.” Chekov backed against a railing and was trapped, his expression as closed as his posture though tears of rage and anguish trembled on his eyelashes. Scotty stepped boldly into him, pressed their bodies together and took Chekov’s face in his hands. 

“I am’nae leaving you, Pasha, I swear,” he said, low and urgent. “I’ll find you again soon. Don’t you be giving up.” 

“You are ze one who iz giving up,” Chekov shouted, trying to twist his head free. Scotty’s pale face contorted in pain but his coarse engineer’s hands gripped tighter. 

“I’m _not_. Pasha, come with me. This—whatever this is, it is’nae any more safe for you than it is for me.” 

“This iz our home,” Chekov said, no longer shouting but not exactly quiet, either. “We have lived here together almost four years now. _Enterprise_ , she iz ours. Yours and mine. We care for her. We keep her alive. If _Enterprise_ is in danger, we are _all_. If _Enterprise_ dies, all of our friends die, too. Maybe you do not care about that but I do.” 

Until that moment, Chekov had sincerely believed that he would never choose anyone over Scotty, who was his one true love. But he found, when the time actually came, that he could choose _everyone_. As Commander Spock had so recently observed, the needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few. 

“Ach, Pasha, don’ you be telling me I dinnae car. I understand how you feel,” Scotty pleaded, “but this is different. Starfleet’s up tae something dangerous and they’re no’ being honest about it.” 

Chekov uncrossed his arms suddenly and swung them up hard, knocking Scotty’s hands away. He’d gotten so _big_. Not terribly tall, but broad across the shoulders and thick through the chest. And he was strong, with the ridiculous strength of young manhood, not only the muscles but the _certainty_ that went with being twenty-one. Scotty had lost weight over the last year or so, too many long nights and not enough sandwiches, and he felt as if he’d shrunk while his wee lad grown into a wee man.

Well, maybe not so wee. And maybe not his, either.

 “I never suspected you were coward, Mr. Scott,” Chekov said coldly, tears streaming down his dead-white face. “Go, zen, if you are afraid. I will stay here and look after ze ship myself.”

 “From any other man, I wouldnae be taking that kind o’ talk,” Scotty said, stiffening his spine and meeting Chekov’s eyes without flinching.

 “Take it and go,” Chekov spat. “Iz all ze same to me.” He turned away and only the sudden unsteadiness in his legs made it possible for Scotty to grab his arm and jerk him back.

 “I’m letting you get away wi’ that because I love you and I know you’re upset—you don’ mean what you’re saying.”

 “Believe what you want,” he said, his voice icy, his bicep as hard and unforgiving as stone in Scotty’s hand.

 “So this is it, Pasha? You want to end our life together right here, like this?”

 “Iz you who are ending it by leaving. When you pack bags wit’out ewen talking first, iz your decision, not mine.”

 Keenser spoke then and Chekov gave him a sorrowful look.

 “I will miss you, too, Mr. Keenser,” he said, and Scotty could have sobbed at the hurt in those words, falling from tender lips not made for pain. That sweet mouth hadn’t said anything kind, or even regretful, to him since this conversation started and Scotty was ridiculously jealous of Keenser for receiving sympathy where there was none for himself.

 “If this is really the end of us,” Scotty murmured, his own mouth trembling in a way that Chekov would have found adorable under other circumstances, “may I have a last request?”

 “What could I have to offer,” Chekov asked with all of the dignity at his command, “that iz so important now, when you were willing to leave wit’out it?”

 “I was’nae going to leave without seeing you,” Scotty protested. He might have gone on, tried to plead his case to Chekov’s deafened ears and hardened heart, not to mention the steadily increasing audience. But the stone muscle under the skin of Chekov’s bicep began, impossibly, to quiver, and he knew it was useless. Knew it as surely as he knew that verteron flux distortion could destroy a phase-plasma generator.

 All that really mattered was that he was hurting his mate, the man with whom he had pair-bonded for life in accordance with Starfleet regulations, in a ceremony recognized on all of the Federated Planets. He was hurting Pasha, the most important person in every world.

 “I never meant to be leaving you, ever,” he said softly. “But it seems like I am, an’ you will’nae be wanting me back. So before I go, will you no’ give us one last kiss?”

 Chekov’s whole body tensed and for a second it seemed like he would refuse, shattering Scotty’s heart and hope and image for all time. Then he spun back and threw his arm around Scotty’s neck, pulled up hard against him, and pressed their mouths together with biting force. Scotty let go his arm and caught Chekov’s head in his hands again, took control of the kiss and softened it into something tender and sweet. He had time to realize that it was possibly the best kiss he would ever share with anyone and then it was over. Chekov broke free while Scotty dreamed and was already on the stairs to the next level by the time Scotty’s mind caught up with reality.

 “Goodbye, my wee Russian doll,” he whispered and went back to packing his things. 

***

Chekov wasn’t sure how to go about being Chief right now. He’d never been in charge, but things seemed to be running smoothly and he scampered down to the cargo bay to oversee the loading that Monty ( _no, Scotty_ , he told himself sternly, _we are not special anymore_ ) had walked out on. Looking over the specs, seeing what was there and what was missing, he saw what Scotty had seen and felt a twinge of apprehension. But there were so many other things vying for his attention— the painful pounding of his heart, the rush of blood in his ears, the mental image of Monty ( _Scotty_ ) separating his personal belongings from the jumble of Starfleet property, and worst of all the knowledge that when he returned to his quarters after shift Scotty wouldn’t be there.

It hit him all over again like a punch in the throat. Scotty was gone; had packed up and left without even telling him why. Their home was empty, their union in tatters. He was alone.

 Chekov signed for the missiles and went back to work.

 *** 

When the captain called down and asked Chekov if he broke the ship, Chekov very nearly said _maybe_. His mind raced back over the last half hour, seeking clear memories of everything he’d done, every order he’d given and act he’d witnessed, searching for something he might have missed the first time. Did Lt. Fthhhs set the thermo-dampener to six or seven? Did he tell Ensign Dubenko to fire the primary or auxiliary gravimetric capacitor? Had Lt. Nnedi double-checked the trilithium scale, or was he supposed to? Did he, after all those things he said to Scotty about protecting his ship, cripple it through inattention? Or was it something to do with those missiles?

 No, it wasn’t the missiles. The core had overheated, that was all. No explosion, no fire, no chain of detonations rupturing the hull and ripping upward through the decks. They were just stalled. It wasn’t good, it wasn’t supposed to happen, but he could handle it. He wished Scotty was there to help, but his faith in himself was whole and sound.

 Still, as he went running about Main Engineering, checking dials and lights, throwing switches and calling out orders to experienced engineers two and three times his age, he asked himself over and over _what would Scotty do_? Half a dozen times he nearly reached for his communicator, wondering if he was allowed to ask Mr. Scott’s advice even though he’d resigned. Chekov was sad and hurt and angry, but he didn’t even try to tell himself that Scotty wouldn’t care about the crew, stranded here on the edge of Klingon space. He knew Scotty would beam himself back to the ship in a heartbeat if he could, if he knew what was happening and how to get there.

 But Chekov didn’t call. This was his job now, the captain made him Chief. And he’d had to cool hot warp cores before, after all. Four years on the _Enterprise_ under Captain Kirk had taught him to keep his head in all types of bizarre emergencies.

 Messages filter through on the internal comms and he had a vague idea of what was going on around him, but not how much trouble they were really in. The ship herself was under stress, the captain barking orders, and every time Chekov thought he had a handle on things, another crisis leapt up under his feet. When Captain Kirk told him he suspected it wasn’t Chekov’s fault, it shook loose a whole new avalanche of frightening thoughts. If this really was sabotage it could be everywhere. They could be facing system-wide failures set like line traps, a new disaster springing on him with each one he overcame.

 For a moment he paused on the catwalk, removed his welding goggles and cleaned the lenses as best he could. If it was sabotage, if it _was_ a line trap, the course would be linear and therefore predictable. Chekov had an idea of where it had started, he knew where it went next, surely he’d be able to figure out where it was going. Inspired, he put his goggles back on and ran.

 *** 

When it happened that the hull actually was breached and decks were ruptured and in flames, Chekov had long since stopped fantasizing about Scotty coming to the rescue. By then he was glad that Scotty _wasn’t_ aboard, that he was somewhere safe from all this. Chekov didn’t even think to be angry that his partner had somehow known and not told him. Then, amazingly, he heard Scotty’s voice over the comm and his heart floated aloft with hope. It must have been a trick! The captain must have suspected something and used Scotty as a double agent! It made perfect sense. That’s why Scotty hadn’t been able to tell him, and why he didn’t expect his leaving to be the end. Chekov just had to do his part, keep the ship alive a little longer, and Scotty would soon come home.

 A hot line burst overhead and Chekov scrambled backward. The comm cut out in a shower of sparks and the console flamed for a few seconds before the fire suppression kicked in. Still, he was filled with hope. Their side had a plan, and they were the good guys so they would win. He was certain of that, right up until they began taking enemy fire and the power went out.

  _Oh, Scotty, where are you now?_ he thought desperately. Had that Khan person beamed him back with the captain—assuming he’d kept his word even about returning Kirk—or was he still aboard the ship that had born the explosion of seventy-two torpedoes of unknown power? No matter. Chekov would just have to save the ship himself and, if Scotty wasn’t aboard, get the transporters back online and fetch him. Khan’s Dreadnought Class ship had excellent fire suppression as well. It was crippled, hanging dead in space, but life support could be maintained indefinitely. Scotty could easily take care of himself on a ship like that. He was much safer there, in fact, than aboard _Enterprise_ , which Chekov couldn’t help noticing was beginning to spiral.

“Monty, lyubimiy, what would you do?” he murmured as he ran from one console to the next, hitting screen selections and flipping switches, his hands answering the question he continued to ask aloud. There was a manual stabilizer switch that he was sure would buy them another minute, maybe more, to work on the power, and he flew across the catwalks of the slowly tilting ship in search of the control panel that Scotty had only shown him once. All around him was chaos as equipment broke loose and crewmembers, his co-workers and friends, plunged shrieking to their deaths in the bowels of the ship. “I take it all back, Monty, do not be here,” he panted aloud, leaping to grasp the housing of the water purification silo, clinging fiercely with arms and legs as _Enterprise_ rolled lazily to starboard. “Be anywhere in ze galaxy, lyubimiy moy, except zis ship.”

 But he was. Hardly had Chekov finished speaking when he saw Monty and the captain stranded on the very catwalk he’d been heading for. He didn’t know where they came from so suddenly, but this wasn’t the time to ask questions. He was about to call to them when a hydrogen tank whooshed by, clanged off the catwalk, and flung both men over the side. They held on, barely, but he knew they had no time.

 Chekov eased himself halfway around the housing and dropped to the outer rail of the catwalk below. If the ship rolled any further he would go off, too, but he wasn’t afraid for himself. He was young and wiry and full of luck. His heart nearly stopped when Scotty’s hands slipped free, but his body kept moving forward. He saw the captain catch Scotty’s hand and pushed himself faster. They didn’t seem to notice him shimmying along the rails, though he could have sworn Kirk once looked right at him. But who knew what they saw, looking up into the light and fire at the heart of the dying starship?

 The captain looked up one last time before his straining fingers gave way. Then his gaze dropped, perhaps to contemplate his doom, or to apologize to Scotty. In that instant Chekov slipped through the rails and spread his long limbs, landed flat on the bars beneath him and snagged the captain’s flailing hand in both of his. His lungs felt flattened and he’d taken a nasty whack to the testicles when his leg slipped between the bars; but somehow the pain and paralysis helped him hold on harder, and when the deck tilted back just a little he managed to pull them up.

 Chekov’s shoulders felt pulled apart, his arms weak and hard to control, his chest burning for want of air, his balls shrieking in fury at the insult they’d suffered, but he barely felt any of it, so great was his joy at having Scotty back again. Now they would surely be able to save the ship. After a brief discussion Chekov left them to find the manual override switch that would allow them to reroute power once it was restored. He galloped halfway across Engineering, flying up staircases and sliding down them with his elbows locked over the rails, slipping and skidding down the deck when it tilted in his favor and grabbing whatever handhold was available when it threatened to send him the wrong way. By the time he found the switch, his arms were numb but the job only begun.

 The switch was a massive thing and he had to pull the hatch off the console to reach it. More aches that he would feel later, when there was time. Now, however, with the switch repositioned to zero effect, he left the console and ran after his commanders. There was only one answer now, only one way to save the ship and everyone on it, and he had to get there before Scotty volunteered. Chekov was the logical choice. The captain and Scotty, who was the real Chief Engineer, were both too valuable to lose. It had to be Chekov, who was as fast and strong as Kirk, and knew the warp engine as well as Scotty.

 But he was too late. Even running at top speed, he was simply too far away. The choice had been made already, and when he staggered to a halt by Scotty’s side, he saw for the first time ever tears in his partner’s eyes.

 “Oh no,” he whispered. “No, Monty. It was supposed to be me. Why did you not make him wait? I was coming…”

 “I dinnae have a choice. He knocked me out, the mad bastard. Not that he’d have let you go, either. What are you thinking, that he’d let a wee genius like you go an’ die in… And I wouldnae have allowed it, either.” Scotty stiffened his spine and wiped his eyes viciously with the sleeve of his shirt. “Go on back tae the bridge, Mr. Chekov. I’m about to call Commander Spock down an’ they’ll be needing you up there.”

 “But—but ze keptin, he wanted me in engineering.”

 “Aye, and you were invaluable. But you’ve done all you can and I expect Mr. Sulu will be needing your help. We have’nae caught that Khan creature yet and I don’ think there’ll be any rest till we do.”

 “Aye, Commander,” Chekov said, trying to sound crisp and choking on it a little. Their captain was dying in front of them and while there weren’t any regulations that laid out how to behave in this exact situation, he felt instinctively that it was a formal occasion. Scotty keyed his communicator and Chekov took flight, not wanting to hear what was about to be said.

 Knowing Spock would take the most direct route from the Bridge to Engineering, Chekov took a slightly longer one to avoid meeting him. It seemed like every time Spock lost someone he valued highly, it was because Chekov had failed. This wasn’t so direct a failure as not managing to transport Spock’s mother off of a collapsing planet, but he still blamed himself. It didn’t matter what Scotty said. If Chekov had been there, he would have made the climb to the warp core, _Enterprise_ would still have her rightful captain, and Mr. Spock would still have his best friend.

 He practically slunk off the turbolift and went to his station, gesturing with his head for the lieutenant who’d replaced him to vacate. Sinking into his seat, he risked a glance at Sulu and had to bite his lip to keep it from trembling.

 “What’s going on? What happened to Spock?”

 Chekov fixed his eyes on his console and drew a deep breath, steadying himself before he spoke.

 “Ze captain iz dying. Commanders Spock and Scott are wit’ him.”

 “What? Wait, what are you talking about?”

 “Captain Kirk iz inside ze warp core containment. He saved ze ship but we cannot save him.”

 “Oh my god,” said Sulu, stricken.

 “We must prepare ourselves and ze ship for whatewer Captain Spock decides to do. We are ze senior bridge crew, Hikaru. Ze others will look to us.”

 “Yes, of course,” Sulu agreed, rapidly composing himself. “But—my god. Should we make some kind of announcement, or wait for Spock?”

 “We should wait. It—it was not ower when I left,” Chekov whispered. A single tear dropped from his lower lashes and ran down his cheek, but he didn’t acknowledge it even so far as to wipe it away. He sat stiff and still, head up, back straight, and by the time Captain Spock asked for coordinates to beam down, the tear had vanished without a trace. 

*** 

Everything after that was a blur of confusion that Chekov neither wanted to remember or understand. He found the answers to everyone’s questions, helped Sulu manage the power and monitor vital systems, and was finally ordered to his quarters when the ship was safely docked and all crew members accounted for.

 Scotty, responsible for beaming all injured and non-essential crew to Earth, was later leaving his post and found Chekov already in bed, seemingly asleep. Though Scotty had been hoping for the chance to make up tonight, it was enough that Chekov was there and that the key code on the door had not been changed. It meant that he wanted to make up; that he was open to Scotty’s explanations and willing to forgive. They just might have to wait a little longer.

 Scotty went silently to the head, undressed and washed swiftly, put on his pajama pants, and slid carefully into bed. Chekov stirred and turned over, draping himself across Scotty’s chest and thighs in one long, languid motion.

 “So you’ve forgiven me?” Scotty asked, and was answered first by a slow, furious kiss of the kind that made him feel like a teenager again, young and uncertain, in the hands of a more experienced man rather than a lad nineteen years his junior.

 “Da, of course,” Chekov said, suddenly the child again. “Monty, I am so sorry. I would ne’wer have said all those terrible things if I had known what you were doing. Not that I think you should have told me, either, so please do not apologize. Ze keptin must have sworn you to secrecy and I should have trusted you. I should have known you would not go away and leave me like that and I am so, so sorry for ewer thinking was true.”

 “Slow down a minute, love. What are you on about?” He kept hold of Chekov’s narrow waist as the boy tried to pull away and they studied each other’s faces with puzzled eyes.

 “You were working wit’ ze keptin, yes? Pretending to resign so you could infiltrate enemy ship? I wish I had known—I would not have behawed so badly—but it just means you are excellent spy.”

 For a moment Scotty was tempted to lie and let Chekov believe the more heroic version of events. But he had behaved badly enough himself without letting Chekov take all the blame.

 “Ach, laddie, I wish that were true.”

 “Iz not? Then what—where did you go?”

 “I resigned, just like I said, and went back tae Earth. There was’nae any secret mission. At least not then. After you took Khan away from the Klingons, the captain asked me for help and I got myself onto the admiral’s ship, hoping to get back intae his good graces. And yours, o’ course. You were right before—I was’nae thinking clearly and I dinnae think of you at all.”

 “Oh,” Chekov said simply. He’d been so confident of his assessment, so certain that it was all a big misunderstanding, that it was difficult to backtrack and be angry again. “But you risked your life to help us anyway.”

 “Aye, well, I knew resigning were stupid as soon as it was done. By the time Kirk got around tae calling me, I’d have done anything for a chance tae come home.”

 “You missed ze ship that much?” Chekov’s tone was almost teasing, but the anger was beginning to creep back.

 “I missed _you_ , you wee daft ensign.” His arms tightened, squeezing Chekov so hard he couldn’t speak if he wanted to. “I never should have left you, Pasha, an’ you’re right tae be mad. Ach, I wouldnae blame you if you never forgave me. I’m so sorry, love. I cannae tell you _how_ sorry. Thinking you tae leave the ship for me, not even taking your feelings intae consideration ‘cause I were angry at the captain—I been nothing but selfish since this whole thing started, including comin’ in here and gettin’ into bed with you like you have tae take me back.”

 “Oh, Monty,” he sighed, nuzzling into the damp warmth of his life-mate’s throat, feeling the urgency of his racing pulse against his lips. “We would all have died if you had not come back for me. And how would you have saved us if you had not left first? Monty, lyubimiy moy, all zat matters now iz you are here. Promise you will ne’wer leave me again and we will forget zis.”

 “Aye, Pasha, I promise. I won’t ever leave you for anything. Except top secret spy missions, o’ course.”

 That earned more of a laugh than it maybe deserved, so relieved was Chekov to have things settled so easily. Being cruel to Scotty had been a terrible strain, and holding onto his anger took more energy than he could spare. The only thing that felt better than the soft heat and strong arms of the body beneath him was the unwinding of tension that came with the truth.

 “Iz not selfish to expect to sleep in your own quarters,” he said, needing this part to be clear. “I did not go to Engineering after my shift because Captain Spock ordered me to rest. He was quite adamant and I did not want to upset him.”

 “Aye, you’re a good man, Pasha. Always thinking of others.”

 “Not always. I knew you would be coming here ewentually and I tried to stay awake. I wanted zis more zan to help wit’ ze ship. More ewen zan for you to sleep.” Chekov let the precision of his speech slip deliberately, knowing that for Monty, the adorableness of his accent was inversely proportionate to its comprehensibility. 

“Did you now?”

“Zere will be work for weeks, maybe months, before we can leave port again, but each night we do not make love iz a night lost forewer.”

 “And you were so sure we’d be making love no matter what I said?”

 “Da. But remember, I thought was trick. Zat you were spy, and I was the one in ze wrong. Still, I forgive you on ze condition zat you take off pants right now.”

“And if I don’t?”

Chekov nipped his throat in reproof for daring to tease at such a time, and then joined in.

“Zen I will have to do it for you. But I am tired and it will cost later.” That was also a joke, but one based on fact. Chekov was very tired indeed. He had planned on doing all the work, being in better shape and having had a little sleep, but once he found himself flat on the bed, swarmed with hungry kisses, pinned securely beneath his lover’s body, he surrendered completely, as he did only for this man. The tenderness in Scotty’s hands was all the apology Chekov needed, the gentle thrusts within him sealing the promise Scotty made.

Clinging to him as they moved together, alive and whole in the middle of their broken ship, Chekov swore to himself that this was what he would remember most clearly about today. Not Scotty leaving, or the betrayal of Admiral Marcus, or even the captain’s (almost certainly) temporary death. Just these minutes at the end of it all, his lyubimiy buried deep inside him, the two of them trembling together on the verge of a climax that couldn’t possibly be as good as the loving that led up to it.

Except it was—it always was—and Chekov in his innocence added that to the memories he would keep long after the rest of this terribly strange day faded away.


End file.
